I have had a few songs going through my head for what seems to be two or three lifetimes just now. Fortunately, these are songs I actually like quite a bit, so it isn’t torture (I could imagine the Hell it would be to have, say, “Disco Duck” forever on the mind–yes, that dates me a bit, but I hope it makes my point). These songs are a sampling of what’s been bouncing around my skull for some while; if you know them, you probably know why. If you don’t know them, don’t be afraid to click. They are earworms… but in a good way.

Mark Twain (of course) did it first (of course) and better (of course), with his short story “Punch, Brothers, Punch“. Before I list my earworms, I leave you with his words of caution:

Why did I write this article? It was for a worthy, even a noble, purpose. It was to warn you, reader, if you should came across those merciless rhymes, to avoid them–avoid them as you would a pestilence.

If he were not dead, I would think he had possibly found my site!

The songs! To share with you, so as to test Twain’s theory…First, The Decemberists, with “Grace Cathedral Hill”

Then, a bit of honey poured into your ears… Camera Obscura’s “Honey in the Sun”. I could list a half dozen or more Camera Obscura songs, but this one… *sigh*…

Last one for today (if this works, I may unload another batch sometime)… Parachute Musical, with “One More Song”. It was a toss-up between this and “Jacksonville”, which is also excellent. Actually, the whole album is, come to think of it.

So, if Mark Twain is right, I may finally be able to sleep tonight with a skull free of earworms. Although you may not have it so easy…

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A true story, in verse:I was sitting at the barWith some friends I'd never met,When in came the biggest,Meanest man that I've seen yet.He ordered up a beerThen he looked at us and said"'Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire'Just keeps running through my head.""I've a cure for that," I said,To the wonder of his mates.With malice in my heart I sang,"I've got a brand new pair of roller skates."

I envy you. My earworm is usually "These Boots were Made for Walking." I hate it. I have no idea why that's the one always stuck in my brain. When someone in my family wants to annoy me, it usually starts with that tune.And now, thanks to the back and forth between Howard and Cuttlefish, I have too many songs in my head. Time to get off the internet.

I envy you. My earworm is usually "These Boots were Made for Walking." I hate it. I have no idea why that's the one always stuck in my brain. When someone in my family wants to annoy me, it usually starts with that tune.And now, thanks to the back and forth between Howard and Cuttlefish, I have too many songs in my head. Time to get off the internet.

I'm so sorry, Melissa. My own earworm is usually pretty decent–often, Tom Waits, actually. But the cuttlespouse knows one or two evil tunes that could bore their way into my brainstem, which she reserves for emergencies.It is a cruel world.

I'm so sorry, Melissa. My own earworm is usually pretty decent–often, Tom Waits, actually. But the cuttlespouse knows one or two evil tunes that could bore their way into my brainstem, which she reserves for emergencies.It is a cruel world.

Michelle, back in the days when I was digging around in the musical basement of the Internet, I found no less than three recordings of "Ces bottes sont faites pour marcher," a version in German, a version in Czech, and an instrumental in Dixieland style by the Burbank Philharmonic. The real cure for an earworm is to find the most inventive, yet absurd, recording possible. (Pro Tip: The Leningrad Cowboys, the Red Army Chorus, and the St. Petersburg Symphony Orchestra, Stairway to Heaven. Guaranteed earworm killer.)

Michelle, back in the days when I was digging around in the musical basement of the Internet, I found no less than three recordings of "Ces bottes sont faites pour marcher," a version in German, a version in Czech, and an instrumental in Dixieland style by the Burbank Philharmonic. The real cure for an earworm is to find the most inventive, yet absurd, recording possible. (Pro Tip: The Leningrad Cowboys, the Red Army Chorus, and the St. Petersburg Symphony Orchestra, Stairway to Heaven. Guaranteed earworm killer.)

Melissa, I offer youMy tenderest apologiesMy fingers typed "Michelle," in lineWith personal homologies.They are, of course,Completely different names.Like "Harald," "Hal," and "Howie."It's really not the same."Melissa" sings its name;Music, with a touch of honey."Michelle" is simply "Michael"With an eye toward the moneyThat the avaricious Think awaits themIf they flatter AngelsAnd avoid acting all funny.But you and I know better,And "Melissa" is a nameTo conjure with, I know andYet I'm sorry, just the same.

Your ears have better taste than mine… for years, “Everybody doesn’t like something, but nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee” has periodically wriggled out of hibernation to beset me. On the other hand, I can use it to banish such horrors as igotabrandnewkey.